


Guardian

by magisterpavus



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Best Friends, Body Worship, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, First Time, Grief/Mourning, Healing Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Possessive Keith (Voltron), Post-Kerberos Mission, Protective Shiro (Voltron), Size Kink, Soul Bond, Suicidal Thoughts, Switch Keith (Voltron), Switch Shiro (Voltron), True Love, everyone is an adult tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:13:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22534528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magisterpavus/pseuds/magisterpavus
Summary: Keith wants to believe in guardian angels, but he doesn’t.At least, not until a Shiro with starlit hair and open arms visits him in the desert when Keith needs him most.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 52
Kudos: 540





	Guardian

**Author's Note:**

> this is a fic I've wanted to write for AGES uwu so it's a relief to finally have it written & share it with you all.
> 
> note, shiro doesn't have his altean arm from the show here, it's just a pretty silvery altean version of his galran arm because I prefer that design; it ensures he still has maximum hugging power. Also, time travel is trippy - that's why it's fun - but this version of time travel assumes that there's only one reality that they're traveling in, so future!keith knows what happens to present or past!keith. ALSO ALSO, keith is half-galra but ofc he doesn't know yet, so there is lots of "weird potentially galra shiro-is-my-mate stuff" ;D
> 
> I'm hoping to write another fic in this vein with future!keith & champion!shiro, so keep an eye out for that one, too! thanks for reading :') follow me on twitter [@saltyshiro](https://twitter.com/saltyshiro) for more sheith~

Keith wants to believe in guardian angels, but he doesn’t. 

He wanted to believe in guardian angels as a kid when his dad left every night to fight more fires, save more people, and came home smelling like ashes in the early hours of the morning. Some mornings, when the ashes smelled the strongest, he’d duck into Keith’s room. Keith pretended to be asleep, though he always woke up when his dad opened the door. Those creaky hinges were a comfort, a way of knowing he’d come home. 

Some mornings, Keith’s dad would just stand in the doorway for a little while, watching in that quiet, thoughtful way he’d always had. Other mornings, he’d go to Keith’s bedside and lean down, brush a kiss over his forehead, and go to get cleaned up. The first time he did that, Keith almost opened his eyes. His dad was a kind but gruff man, not often outwardly affectionate, and though Keith knew his dad loved him anyway, they rarely exchanged hugs, much less kisses. For some reason Keith could never quite suss out, moms were the ones who were supposed to give hugs and kisses, not dads. But Keith never had a mom, and if you asked him, his dad did the job just fine, for as long as he could.

For years after his dad stopped coming home, Keith would wake up in a cold sweat, his brow aching with the echo of scruff and chapped lips.

He wanted to believe in guardian angels, but he’s not a kid anymore. Keith knows better, and what he knows is that sometimes people die, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.

That doesn’t make it hurt any less when Shiro dies.

History repeats itself and all that shit, but Shiro’s not his dad, and his death is different. Somehow it hurts more and less all at once. When his dad died, it was a shock. Keith’s never been shot, but he imagines that getting a shotgun shell to the back doesn’t feel too different from getting the news from the paramedics that his dad didn’t make it out before the roof collapsed on him.

When Shiro died, it was like the roof was collapsing on Keith. It was a good roof, too, one he built up with Shiro by his side out of the ashes of a shit disciplinary record, years of repressed trauma, and a hotheaded streak a mile wide – Shiro wanted Keith to be a goddamn phoenix, and fuck, Keith  _ tried.  _ Keith will stand by that – he tried, for Shiro. God, he tried  _ so fucking hard _ to be good – no. To be _ great.  _ Because Shiro said he could. Shiro believed he could, from the bottom of his stupid, perfect heart – and now that heart is dead on the edge of the Solar System.

That’s what they say, anyway. Keith isn’t sure, and that’s the worst part. There’s no body. At least his dad had a body, even if the funeral director refused to let Keith see it. 

He saw it anyway, but the funeral director doesn’t know that. Keith broke into the morgue. He understood why the funeral director didn’t want him to see his dad one last time when he opened that cardboard box with his dad’s name on it, but standing shivering in the refrigerated room with the dead, with his dad who was more ashes than skin, something settled inside Keith. It wasn’t closure, exactly, but it was the closest he was gonna get. It was a chance to say goodbye – a chance he never got with Shiro.

Keith tried to say goodbye at the launch, but Shiro wouldn’t let him. He squeezed Keith so tight that Keith thought his ribs would break – he almost hoped they would, to give him something to remember Shiro by, even if it hurt like hell – and said, “This isn’t goodbye, Keith. I’m coming back. Yeah? I promise.” He pulled back and squeezed Keith’s shoulder, his smile crooked, eyes bright in the sunset glow. “Maybe I’ll even bring you some Pluto moon rocks, spitfire.”

Keith folded his arms, lifting a doubtful eyebrow. “Moon rocks? What am I gonna do with those, old timer?”

Shiro rolled his eyes, hand falling away as someone called for him at the launch pad. “You’ll figure something out,” he said. “You always do.” He waved to the people on the pad – Matt and Sam had said their goodbyes. Keith knew he should let Shiro go, too, but there was a pit in his stomach, and he didn’t think it was ever going to go away if Shiro got on that ship. “I’d better go,” Shiro said, flashing him an apologetic grin. “When I get back, you’d better have beaten all my sim scores. I’m serious.”

“Only if you bring me those moon rocks,” Keith whispered, the words catching in his throat.

Shiro’s brow creased. He hesitated, glanced back at the ship, took a step back towards Keith. “Hey,” Shiro said. “You know I’ll be back, right? You know.”

He said it with so much confidence, so much conviction, that Keith wanted, desperately, to believe he was right. To believe that some higher power would bring Shiro back safe and sound, no matter what.

“Okay,” Keith agreed, staring up at him, eyes lingering on Shiro’s smile, so he wouldn’t forget it like he’s forgotten his dad’s. “I know. I’ll be waiting. Right here.”

“I know you will,” Shiro said, his smile faltering for only a moment before he scooped Keith up in one last, truly bruising hug, then walked away. 

Keith didn’t call out after him. He just watched, quiet, as the pit in his stomach grew wider.

These days, sometimes Keith feels like that pit will swallow him whole. Sometimes, he wants it to. He has too much time to think, out here, alone, away from the Garrison, away from the memories, away from the burning roof. When he sits on the front porch and looks up at the stars, though, all of it comes crashing back down on him. 

Grief is not a thing you can escape. It claws its nasty way up from inside of you and it doesn’t let go until you stop trying to pry it out and away. Even then, you can still feel where it sank its claws deep into you. 

Shiro’s grief is gonna leave scars. Keith knows that as sure as he knows that guardian angels ain’t real.

In a nicer world, Keith thinks, Shiro would’ve been his guardian angel. There were times it felt like that. Nobody else saw in Keith what Shiro did, and Shiro saved him when he gave Keith a second chance — Keith’s painfully aware of that. But Shiro was only human in the end. And Keith couldn’t save him. Shiro never got a second chance, and that, more than anything, hurts.

Keith tells himself he doesn’t mean anything by it when, five months after Kerberos failed due to ‘pilot error’ and four months after he got booted from the Garrison, he takes his dad’s old revolver out from its dusty hiding place under the floorboards. He tells himself he’s just making sure he still remembers how to use it when he loads it and walks, slowly, to the porch again. He sets the revolver down gingerly beside him and looks up at the stars again. He thought it might be comforting to have it there, close, just in case, but instead the grief and the fear swirling all around him grips him harder.

His dad would be angry at these thoughts in his head. His dad had rarely gotten angry, but when he did it was a long low simmer of disappointment, of measured words and perpetual frowns. Keith thinks his dad would do more than frown if he saw Keith now. But he’s dead. So he won’t.

Shiro’s dead, too. That’s the official ruling. But Keith never saw a body. Keith doesn’t believe there was a pilot error. Keith knows that if he really believed Shiro was dead, he wouldn’t have fought so hard against it. He wouldn’t have thrown everything away for a dead man. Would he?

Keith shakes, shoves the heels of his palms to his eyes and presses until his eyelids ache from the pressure. If Shiro’s still alive and he comes back to a skeleton in the middle of the desert, Keith will have failed him.  _ If, if, if. _ So is that it, then? He’s got to wait for the rest of his life for a man who might be dead, a man he refuses to let go the way everyone else did so readily? And then, even then, Shiro is sick. He’s living on borrowed time anyway. But Keith doesn’t care. He just needs to  _ know.  _ That’s what’s killing him. 

That’s the funny thing about hope. Sometimes it just doesn’t work. 

Keith’s hand strays to the revolver. The metal is cold, the kind of cold that is not so much a temperature as it is the absence of warmth, a black hole that leaches the heat from Keith’s skin, turns his fingertips numb and frostbitten under the Sonoran moon. Keith’s eyes trace that silver curve, and his lower lip quivers against his will. He’s never going to get those moon rocks. 

Keith swallows. His fingers curl around the trigger, toying with the safety and biting his chapped lip until it cracks open and hot copper floods his mouth. He could be the best pilot in the Universe, but the truth is that it wouldn’t really matter if Shiro wasn’t right there with him. After Kerberos, Keith didn’t stop beating the highest sim scores because he was incapable. He stopped because each victory was hollow, a stinging reminder of what was missing, of who got him there in the first place. 

Suddenly the moonlight is blinding. Keith closes his eyes and ignores the lump in his throat, prickly and clinging like a cholla ball. Maybe it isn’t that he grieves Shiro, exactly.

Maybe he just  _ misses _ him.

It’s funny, almost. For years and years, Keith tried to build the tallest, most unwelcoming walls he could. He tried to make himself into someone untouchable, unapproachable, unattached and uninterested in anyone but himself, because the endless, brutal cycle of foster homes had taught him that he was the only person he could rely on. 

Then he met Shiro. His walls never stood a chance.  _ Keith  _ never stood a chance.

Keith had done everything he could to make himself invincible in a world that hated his guts, and then Shiro came along and ruined that plan. He made Keith vulnerable, and Keith...let him. By the time he figured it out, figured out that he had a soft spot a mile wide and its name was Shiro, it was too late. 

Keith doesn’t know if Shiro even knows. His heart aches at the thought. Keith can’t remember if he ever told Shiro how much he means to him. Meant. _ No.  _ Shiro might be dead, but what he did for Keith isn’t. That’s why he’s sitting here, after all, staring at the stars with his hand on a revolver, struggling to choose between the fight and the escape. 

Keith’s hand curls into a fist, jerks away from the revolver and knocks hard against the weathered wood porch. He’s always been a fighter. He just wishes he didn’t have to do it alone again.

He thinks his eyes are playing tricks on him when he finally tears his gaze away from the stars and sees the approaching figure, picking their careful way through the sagebrush and prickly pear, silver hair shining in the moonlight. Keith stands, stricken, the revolver forgotten on the porch. Guns don’t work on ghosts, after all.

It’s Shiro. Keith would know him anywhere, even though...he’s  _ different. _ As Shiro comes closer, he can’t process what he’s seeing. The Shiro he knows has shaggy black hair and honey warm skin and a goofy smile. This Shiro’s hair is silver and swept back, as if polished, and his skin has a pallor to it – wherever he comes from, it’s not under the desert sun. 

He’s also – bigger. Shiro’s always been taller, but his shoulders were never so wide, his form both musclebound and poised as he pauses a few yards from the porch, his head slightly tilted. His face is scarred, a faded slash across the bridge of his nose, and his right arm...Keith blinks. It’s been replaced by a silvery prosthetic, gleaming and unearthly like the rest of him. Slowly, Keith’s gaze works its way back up to Shiro’s face. He’s smiling, but it’s small and soft and tinged with a sadness Keith doesn’t understand. “Hey,” Shiro says, quiet, almost secretive. “It’s good to see you, Keith.”

Keith stares at him, vaguely aware that he’s clutching the porch post for support. “You,” Keith whispers, then licks his lips, mouth dry. “Are you dead?”

Shiro’s smile falters, and he steps closer, shaking his head. He glances at the revolver, then back at Keith, and his brow creases. “No,” he says. “No, Keith. I’m alive.” He reaches out, offers his left hand. Keith blinks at it. He looks _ so real. _ Real, but older. Slowly, Keith lays his hand over Shiro’s, feels the heat of his skin and the calluses on his palm. His breath catches, shocked, when his hand doesn’t fall through and Shiro doesn’t dissolve into mist. This is an elaborate hallucination. Keith’s fingers curl, dwarfed by Shiro’s.

Shiro takes another step closer. “I know this is a lot,” he murmurs, almost apologetic. “But it’s me, Keith. It’s really me. I’m really here, with you.”

Keith’s hand trembles, and the rest of him soon follows. He shakes his head. “That’s –” His breath clicks and dies in his throat. “That’s not possible. How – you – they said you –”

“Keith, Keith, hey,” Shiro whispers, and takes another hesitant step forward, and that’s it, Keith can’t not embrace him, wrapping his arms around Shiro tight and disbelieving, Shiro’s body impossibly solid against his own. Keith presses his cheek to Shiro’s chest and hears his heartbeat and a tremor goes through him. He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until gentle fingers wipe hot tears away and tilt his head up.

“Let’s go inside,” Shiro suggests, “okay?”

Keith clings to him, suddenly terrified that if he lets go for even a second, Shiro will vanish. “Okay,” he manages, stumbling numbly across the porch and through the door with Shiro’s hand enveloping his own, keeping him close enough for their sides to touch like he knows Keith will lose it if they aren’t. 

They sit down on the sagging couch together and for a long moment, Keith just looks at him, their fingers still interwoven. Shiro doesn’t seem to mind, and watches Keith with a raised brow and quirked lips. “You have questions,” Shiro says. “You can ask, if you want.”

Keith leans back into the cushions and clears his throat. “You’re older,” he says. It isn’t so much a question as a realization, one that tugs the puzzle pieces slowly into place.

Shiro nods. “Yes.”

Keith’s eyes narrow, taking in the fine wrinkles at the edges of his eyes, the smile lines, the new, sure way he holds himself. “How much older?”

Shiro regards him steadily. “I’m thirty-two.”

Keith sucks in a breath. Shiro was twenty-four when he left for Kerberos.  _ Eight years. _ “You’re a time traveler,” Keith says, and it sounds as stupid as it did in his head, but it’s worth it for the way Shiro grins, one of his old smiles, the ones that light up his entire face. _ “Seriously?”  _ Keith squeaks.

“Seriously,” Shiro chuckles, and relaxes slightly, his smile fading but not disappearing, his eyes so soft as he looks at Keith that Keith’s face burns. Shiro never looked at him quite like that at the Garrison. Never so open, so tender and obvious in his affection. 

“Why –” Keith frowns. “Why are you here?”

Shiro hums and squeezes his hand. “Simple,” he says. “You.”

“Me?” Keith’s voice cracks. He can’t help it. Shiro is –  _ well.  _ He’s aged well. And he’s fucking – alive.  _ He’s alive.  _ Keith feels like he’s in freefall. 

“Yes,” Shiro murmurs. “You needed me. So I’m here.” He sighs. “The me from the present...he can’t be with you right now, even though he wants to be. God, he wants to be. But I can. And in the time I’m from...that Keith told me you would need me, right now.” Shiro tilts his head. “Was he right?”

Keith’s eyes widen in wonder and confusion. “You still know – me?” he whispers. “Are we...still friends?”

Shiro pauses. “Mhm,” he says. “Not just friends.” And to Keith’s astonishment, Shiro lifts his left hand, and for the first time Keith notices the gold ring on his finger, worn but still shining. Keith makes a choked sound and Shiro laughs, his ears pink. “We take our sweet time to get there, but – Keith?”

Keith rips himself away, pressing his back to the other end of the couch, breathing hard, staring at that ring, at Shiro, at the future – his future. How.  _ How?  _ This has to be a dream. A really good dream, but – “You’re my husband?” Keith squawks.

Shiro inclines his head. 

Keith flails. “You – can you even tell me that? Doesn’t that break – I don’t know, time travel rules?”

Shiro shrugs. “No. This already happened for my Keith. What we do – for him, it’s the past. I already told him. He knew. I know he knew because he told me, once we figured out the whole time travel thing.”

“Your Keith,” Keith croaks, and rubs his eyes. _ Fuck.  _ What the fuck. Then he freezes, eyes locking on Shiro in a new way, heat rising under his collar. “Then – you know that I – we – like…” He clamps his mouth shut.

Shiro’s eyes glint. “Like...?” he prompts. The bastard is enjoying this.

But so is Keith. Now that the initial shock is fading, he’s... _ giddy.  _ Shiro is  _ alive.  _ Keith doesn’t know how, doesn’t know where that scar came from or what happened to his right arm, but he doesn’t think Shiro would tell him even if he asked. Right now, Keith just cares that Shiro is here, breathing, and beautiful before him. 

He doesn’t have enough brainpower to fully contemplate the ring right now, so he doesn’t. Instead he throws himself across the couch and into Shiro’s arms. It’s one of the only places where Keith has ever felt like he belongs. 

Shiro lets out a soft  _ ooph  _ of surprise, but then his arms slowly wrap around Keith, and with his face buried in Shiro’s neck, Keith can only hug him harder, savor the closeness that he’s never wanted with anyone else. Maybe this Shiro knows that. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t hesitate to touch Keith the way he really wants to be touched, warm palms sliding down to settle on Keith’s lower back, framing his hips, anchoring him in Shiro’s lap.

The contact makes Keith dizzy, and he doesn’t even realize he’s pressing shivery kisses to the column of Shiro’s throat until his hands tighten and his chest rumbles and he pulls back just enough to whisper, “What do you want, Keith?” Then he pauses, reassessing, voice dropping low when he corrects, “What do you need?”

Keith blinks up at him, hands still curled in Shiro’s shirt. It’s a plain white v-neck, doing little to shield Shiro from the chill of the desert night or to hide what’s beneath. “Don’t you know already?” Keith asks.

Shiro hums, and nudges his nose against Keith’s in a delightfully playful, familiar way. “I only know because you told me,” he replies. “But I want to hear it from you, the you from now.”

Keith takes a moment to lean against him, breathe him in, center himself before he says, “You. I need you, Shiro, I want –” His heart thuds and his eyes fall shut at the feeling of Shiro’s hands tightening, even those two points of contact overwhelming. “Everything,” Keith admits. “But I’ve never…” He trails off, uncertain how to explain it: never kissed someone, much less anything that follows, but not just that – never felt so much for someone, never felt any desire to do anything with them, much less  _ everything. _

But Shiro just nods, his metal hand lifting away to cup Keith’s cheek, thumb stroking his jaw slowly. “I know,” he says, and Keith realizes – he really does know. He and the future Keith have had time to talk about this, all of this. What did the future Keith tell Shiro? What do they do together, tonight? Do they just stay here on the couch, snuggling and exchanging sweet nothings?

No, Keith thinks – he’s pretty damn sure they don’t do that.

Shiro’s lips quirk, and his thumb touches the corner of Keith’s mouth, featherlight. “You’re thinking hard about  _ something.” _

“Whatever we do right now,” Keith whispers, slowly lifting his gaze to meet Shiro’s again, “it’s the first time, for us.” Shiro draws in a sharp breath, his pupils dilating as Keith shifts closer, lifting his hands to frame Shiro’s face, admiring the worn black leather against silver hair. “You’ve already had a first kiss with me, but I – for me, that wasn’t the first time. Was it?”

Shiro wets his lips. “No,” he whispers. He leans in, pauses. “You were such a good kisser. I should’ve known you had practice.”

Keith hums, their noses brushing again, this time in a way that is far more purposeful than playful. “I’m sure you’re a good teacher, Shiro.”

“Oh my god,” Shiro whispers, almost reverent. “He warned me you were a menace, but...”

Keith raises an eyebrow. “Oh, a menace, huh? Hmph. We’ll see about that.” He closes his eyes, because he’s pretty sure that’s what you’re supposed to do, and presses his lips to Shiro’s.

Keith has no idea how to kiss someone. It’s just sort of dry and awkward at first and then Shiro makes a low sound, metal fingers cool on Keith’s jaw as he tilts his head and parts his lips and Keith thinks,  _ oh, this is what all the fuss is about,  _ and presses in closer, trying to mimic the way Shiro kisses him, mostly failing, and forgetting to care when Shiro guides him down against the couch cushions and deepens it, and  _ okay wow that’s Shiro’s tongue.  _

Objectively, Keith should be grossed out by the way Shiro licks into his mouth, slow and hot, like he’s savoring it. Objectively, he thinks every other tongue, including to some extent his own, is a little gross. But as soon as Keith feels Shiro’s tongue against his lips, he decides he wants it everywhere, immediately, in all the grossest ways possible, and his dick adamantly agrees. Keith would be embarrassed by how fast he’s getting hard if he couldn’t also feel the press of Shiro’s dick through his pants, nudging against his hip. 

Keith grunts as Shiro’s full weight settles over him, his lips parting wider, opening his mouth to Shiro’s increasingly sloppy kisses. It’s lazy, nasty, and way too much for a first kiss. Keith wouldn’t have it any other way. He grabs at the back of Shiro’s neck, holding him there, scratching his nails through soft hair and arching up when Shiro breaks the kiss to peer down at him, dark-eyed, with spit-slick lips and hair already tousled from Keith’s greedy hands. 

Shiro shifts over him, and Keith has to bite his lip to stop himself from whining aloud, the friction of Shiro’s thigh almost too much against his straining jeans. He thinks Shiro knows anyway, if the gleam in his eye is anything to go by. Keith expects Shiro to say something sappy, or maybe just kiss him again, but instead he murmurs, “I forgot how much smaller you were, back then.”

Keith sits up with an indignant huff. “Smaller?” he demands, even though – Keith has eyes, okay. But Shiro is _ massive,  _ a beautiful mountain of a man who is an outlier and should not be considered as a reasonable standard of size to live up to. And Keith has always been, fine, not the biggest of the bunch, but he’s wiry. He can pack a punch. Shiro knows this.  _ Small. Pff. _

Shiro smirks, like he also knows it gets under Keith’s skin...and not in an entirely bad way. “Yeah.” He looks pointedly at his hands on Keith’s waist and – oh,  _ shit. _ If Keith wasn’t hard already, seeing the way Shiro’s hands cup his hips, thumbs nearly meeting in the middle, that would’ve done it for him. His breath hitches and Shiro hums, squeezing, just enough for Keith to feel his tightening grip. 

Keith, slowly, leans back against the couch cushions, resting on his elbows and staring up at Shiro, mouth dry. “You like that,” he whispers, half-accusatory, half-triumphant. “Being  _ bigger.” _

Shiro half-shrugs. “I’m pretty sure the feeling’s mutual, baby.”

_ Baby.  _ Keith isn’t sure what happens – something in him goes molten, something about what Shiro says and how he says it, so low Keith feels it in his gut, smug yet sweet, a taunt and an invitation. He never really got pet names, endearments, but he sure as hell gets it now as he surges up and kisses Shiro hard and bruising, the momentum reversing them, knocking Shiro backwards to the other side of the couch. He goes down with a thump and makes no attempt to save himself from the onslaught, his lips curving in a breathless smile when Keith’s hands smooth down his sides with a little, helpless growl. 

“Something you want, there, baby?” Shiro asks when Keith pulls back to stare at him, panting – and that’s definitely a taunt. He still makes it sound sweet as sugar, though. Ain’t that always Shiro’s way – danger and daring all wrapped up in kindness and soft smiles. 

Keith’s eyes narrow. Wouldn’t it be nice, he thinks, to wipe that cocky smile off his face? His breath quickens. Yes. Shiro thinks he’s prepared for this, prepared for Keith after months of waiting for a Shiro he wasn’t sure would ever come back to him, but he has no idea. Keith knows himself, and he thinks he knows his future self hasn’t told Shiro all the details. He likes surprises – they both do. And now that Keith has him back, and like this – he’s gonna make every second count. 

“Take your shirt off,” Keith says, and it’s quiet but it’s an order, and the smirk slips slowly off of Shiro’s face.

“Ah,” he murmurs, an approving note to his voice that does nothing to make Keith’s dick less interested. “So that’s how this is gonna be.” But he does it, tugging the v-neck off and over his head as Keith waits impatiently. As soon as his chest is bare Keith touches it, digging his fingers into hard grooves of muscle, touch softening over the old scars that cross his skin a disturbing number of times. Shiro swallows when Keith gets to his right arm, to where the silver prosthetic meets scarred flesh. “Keith,” he starts, and he sounds like he’s going to apologize. 

“Shh,” Keith says, and leans down to kiss the scars there, muscle rippling under him in surprise. “I won’t — I won’t lie and say I don’t want to kill whoever did this to you. But I’m glad they didn’t kill you, Shiro. I’m so fucking glad they didn’t.”

“Baby,” Shiro whispers, his left hand lifting to brush against the right side of Keith’s face, touch lingering. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”

“Everything,” Keith says. “But you know that already, don’t you?”

Shiro shivers as Keith’s hands settle over his chest, kneading at it slow, thumbs circling around his nipples. Keith watches Shiro’s expression. The smile is returning, but Shiro just blinks at him with false innocence, stretching his left arm over his head and throwing his chest into even higher definition. Keith rubs at his nipple as it hardens and Shiro groans soft, hips squirming under the insistent press of Keith’s body. There’s a red flush spreading over his face and neck and across his chest and Keith wants to chase it with his tongue, so he does.

“Oh, fuck,” Shiro gasps when Keith licks over his nipples, grazing his teeth there when Shiro’s metal hand digs into his hip – Keith hopes it leaves bruises. “Keith –  _ nngh,  _ what’re you –”

Keith sucks over his nipples, taking his time with both and plucking at them between deft fingers when he’s done, admiring swollen brown flesh before continuing down Shiro’s body, licking at the sweat gathering on his abdomen and in the line of his belly, through the brush of dark hair — not silver down here, huh — and  _ down  _ until Keith is palming at his pants, popping the button and glancing up at Shiro. 

“Wanna taste you,” he whispers, and Shiro groans again, louder, his hips lifting again under Keith’s touch. “Can I, Shiro? You gonna let me blow you?”

Shiro stares down at him, eyes wild. “Please,” he breathes, and Keith can hardly refuse that.

Shiro’s tenting his briefs, the fabric bulging obscenely, and when Keith grips him through it, his cock clings wet and needy to the thin cloth, the tip leaking so much that it takes mere seconds for Keith’s palm to be soaked as he teases Shiro through his underwear, squeezing his cock and keeping it trapped, licking his lips as Shiro squirms with every drag of his swollen cockhead over the increasingly ruined fabric. It’s only when he starts pleading again that Keith leans down to mouth over it instead, until the briefs stretch to their limit and Keith almost gets smacked in the face with Shiro’s dripping cock. 

He doesn’t waste much time admiring how it looks, though he _ is _ an admirer — he shows his appreciation with his tongue, and Shiro cries out above him when Keith licks up the dribbling wetness, dragging the flat of his tongue over hard veins and cupping Shiro’s balls in his palm, his mouth opening wider over Shiro’s cock as he feels their weight. He tries to do what Shiro seems to like, what he responds to the most – he wants to do it all, all at once. 

Keith’s fingers wander lower. He isn’t really thinking — he’s driven forward by the burning need in his belly and his cock, anchoring him here, telling him to lavish Shiro with every bit of desire he’s feeling though he thinks to do so would be impossible. There is no end to his desire for Shiro, after all. But he can do his best to try. He just wants to touch Shiro, everywhere, to make him feel good, everywhere. This is all that goes through his mind when his fingers circle Shiro’s hole —

— and then stop, because the tight rim yields so easily to the press of his thumb, and it’s slick and shiny with lube and something drips out onto Keith’s knuckles, silver-white and unmistakable. Keith’s eyes dart up to Shiro in disbelief. Shiro just slumps back against the pillows and chuckles. “Don’t look at me like that. That was your idea — not mine.” He tilts his head. “Said he wanted to give you a present. Do you like it?”

Keith stares again at Shiro’s hole. Without replying, he slides his forefinger inside, and Shiro grunts in surprise, belly sucking in. Keith can feel more cum warm inside him, and the thought that it’s  _ his _ is a mindfuck and something in him rejects it, howls at the apparent fact that someone else has filled Shiro, even though that someone is  _ himself in eight years.  _

He doesn’t realize he’s growling until Shiro sits up, eyes wide. “Uh, Keith?” Shiro starts. “Are you — ah...”

Keith adds another finger and twists, merciless, blood roaring in his ears and cock heavy in his jeans. “Mine,” he says, only half-hearing it, and when he does, he wants to be embarrassed, but he can’t, not when Shiro is hot and squirming on his fingers and staring at him with open desperation, open  _ want.  _

Suddenly, the friction on his cock is too much and he whines, fumbling to unzip his jeans and hissing when it catches, faltering when Shiro makes a low sound and sits up to still his hands and shove his jeans down, then his boxers, the low sound deepening to a pleased rumble when he draws Keith’s cock out and strokes it in a sure, metal grip. Keith’s breath stutters and Shiro smiles, so soft and gentle, and the smile remains even as he murmurs, “Tell me what you need, baby. I’ll give it to you. Anything, anything.”

Keith groans and half-tackles him, kicking off his jeans the rest of the way and rubbing his hard cock off against Shiro’s, breaths catching on whimpers at the hot, delicious slide of skin on skin. “Wanna fuck you,” he begs, biting again at Shiro’s nipple, nails digging into Shiro’s hips and thighs as he tries to spread him wider. “I — I’ll make it so good, as good as you deserve, I’ve thought about it so many times, Shiro, fuck.”

Shiro hums, left hand curling into Keith’s hair and tugging lightly as Keith continues to work him open on two frantic fingers, grinding over him all the while. “You’ve thought about it, huh?” Shiro coos. “Did you touch yourself, thinking of me, fucking your fist and pretending it was my ass, baby?” Keith groans, burying his face in Shiro’s chest, hips hitching and shuddering, cock smearing over Shiro’s belly as he comes hot and quick. Shiro sucks in a startled breath and Keith whines, face warm and flushed as he realizes he’s finished before even getting inside. 

Shiro is murmuring a low encouragement, some kind of platitude about how it’s okay, it’s his first time and it’s a lot, but Keith isn’t listening. He  _ knows _ it’s okay, because he’s already getting hard again, and as soon as Shiro notices, he shuts his mouth and blinks at Keith’s messy dick in bewilderment. “What?” Keith frowns, sitting back on his heels and biting his lip as he grips his cock at the base, still sensitive from coming but more than ready to go again. “I’m a teenager, remember?”

Shiro makes a strangled sound. “Yeah, but — oh, god. He really wasn’t kidding.”

“About what?” Keith shuffles in close, rubs the tip of his cock over Shiro’s hole and shivers when it winks open, pliant and ready for him. “Isn’t fast recovery time normal for teenagers?”

Shiro throws his forearm over his face with a ruined sound. “Sure,” he croaks. “Sure, Keith.”

Keith frowns and lines up his cock. “I’m gonna fuck you now,” he informs Shiro, in case there was any confusion.

Shiro huffs, lifting his arm away to shoot Keith a crooked grin. “Please,” he repeats, and Keith presses in. 

It’s so fucking good it almost doesn’t feel real. Keith moans, braced over Shiro’s trembling body as thick thighs wrap  _ tight _ around his waist and drag him deeper into Shiro’s even tighter ass, and he thinks you’re supposed to wait a little bit, but he’s done with waiting; he can’t  _ wait  _ with his cock buried in Shiro, with the thought that someday he will have this, have Shiro, whenever he wants, and Shiro will have him. Keith’s breath leaves him in a ragged gasp, hips rolling in sharp, short thrusts that leave them both groaning, Shiro’s dick caught hard and thick between them. 

“C’mon,” Shiro gasps, head thrown back and heels digging into Keith’s ass, “you said you imagined this, then fuck me like it, baby —”

Keith _ snarls, _ thrusting so hard Shiro almost falls off the couch, and the arch of Shiro’s throat catches his eye and it feels _ right  _ when he fits his teeth to it, bites and sucks and bruises Shiro’s skin there, drowning in a litany of  _ yes, he’s mine, yes, yes, yes. _ It isn’t long before he comes again, hips slapping against Shiro’s ass and cock pulsing as Shiro clenches around him. He doesn’t pull out, and as Keith quickly hardens inside him anew, Shiro’s lashes flutter at the feeling, lips parting in a soft sigh of  _ Keith,  _ before his cock spills, too, splattering over his stomach and chest. 

Keith swears, dragging his fingers through the mess and bringing them to his lips before he realizes what he’s doing. With a shaky moan, Shiro closes his eyes, cock twitching but remaining soft as Keith starts to fuck him again, slow and deep this time, letting Shiro feel him as he’s stretched wide and filled all over again. Keith doesn’t know how long this goes on, but it feels like a long time – he certainly takes his time touching Shiro, lifting one of his legs as they splay and fall limp from Keith’s waist, kissing along his inner thigh. 

Shiro shivers, toes curling and breath hitching as Keith’s kisses turn to slow licks. Maybe it’s weird to lick people’s thighs while you’re fucking them, but Shiro doesn’t seem to care. He already knows exactly how weird Keith is, and that’s a strangely comforting thought. For a while, Keith loses himself in these thoughts, good thoughts, coupled with the sensations wrapping around him like a warm blanket, yet ever-sharpened by the dizzying need to come. 

Even after the third time, Keith’s cock remains hard and needy, and he groans, fucking Shiro harder than before, kissing him slow and sloppy when Shiro’s hand drags him down, fingers splayed over his jaw. Keith’s rhythm stutters as Shiro milks his cock to the point of overwhelming sensation, and he clings to Shiro with a groan, seeking release even as his cock begs for mercy. Shiro’s cock is filling out again, but he keeps biting his lip like maybe it’s starting to be too much for him, too. Keith stops, panting, braced over him, sweat dripping from his hair onto Shiro’s heaving chest. 

Shiro shushes him, and when he eases Keith off of him, Keith goes reluctantly, stroking his cock and whining, wanting to bury his face between Shiro’s flexing thighs and lick him open, yet also wanting something he doesn’t know how to name, but which solidifies in his mind as he stares at Shiro’s cock. Shiro follows his gaze and groans, and Keith whines again, softer, overwhelmed. “Shiro,” he says, “Shiro, I –”

“Let’s go to bed, baby,” Shiro whispers, low and rough yet warm, tender. Keith crawls over him for another kiss and Shiro kisses back, then heaves them both up, and Keith wants to say he can walk, almost wants to _ insist  _ he can walk and Shiro should really be the one being carried right now – but to be held by Shiro feels so perfect he can’t even think of protesting. He buries his face in Shiro’s neck and breathes in, obsessed with the smell of his skin, sweat and musk and old cologne and detergent and something else that Keith can’t place at first until he realizes – it’s  _ him. _

_ Shiro smells like him.  _

Keith lets out a sob he doesn’t mean to, and when Shiro lays him down on the old mattress he kneels to cup Keith’s face, brow creased. Keith shakes his head and kisses Shiro’s thumb, then the golden ring on his finger. Shiro’s fingers curl. “Hey,” Shiro whispers. “I don’t…” He wets his lips. “I won’t lie to you and say that the future is gonna be easy. But – it’s gonna be okay. In the end, you’re gonna be okay. We’re gonna be okay.”

“Yeah,” Keith rasps, his hands closing on Shiro’s shoulders, pulling him up onto the bed, too. “But what if I wanna be okay, now?”

“Right now, with me,” Shiro promises, “I’ll make sure you are, baby.”

Shiro kisses him again, and this time he’s the one easing Keith down into the pillows, and Keith welcomes it, gasping into his mouth and letting his legs fall open, maybe too wide, fuck, Keith doesn’t know how wide is too wide, here. Nervousness fizzles out into hazy, urgent want when Shiro settles between his thighs, running his right hand down Keith’s side, stroking over his ribs, his hip, his cock, lower. 

He hums and reaches across Keith to the nightstand, and Keith watches blearily as Shiro opens the second drawer and takes out the little bottle of lube. He knows exactly where to look. Keith shivers at the snap of the cap, belly sucking in sharp when Shiro’s slick fingers circle his rim. Shiro watches his face carefully. Keith can  _ see _ just how hard he is, cock heavy and surely aching as much as Keith’s, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. All of his attention is reserved for Keith, not in a way that feels demanding, but with a soft, warm focus like a pool of morning sunshine. 

“I’m so proud of you, you know,” Shiro murmurs out of nowhere, and Keith blinks up at him, heat coiling in him as Shiro presses a finger in, slow, eyes never leaving Keith’s. “Proud of you now, and of who you become. I’m so lucky to know you, Keith. To be with you, like this.”

Keith gulps, knees drawing up. He’s done this before, a little, but always in the shower, hand tucked away where he can’t see it, not spread out, vulnerable, opening to someone else’s touch. But that someone else is Shiro – the only someone else he’s ever wanted it to be. He moans, low and trembling, and Shiro’s finger sinks into him up to the knuckle, curling. Keith shifts, tries to push down on it, but instead he gets Shiro’s mouth, lips wrapping around the head of his dripping cock. 

Keith cries out, clawing at the blankets, and Shiro adds another finger, sucking more of Keith’s cock into his mouth with a pleased hum that sends Keith spiraling into perfect disarray. Keith chokes on another moan, half Shiro’s name, half a vocalization of the wordless pleasure sweeping over him, through him. Fucking Shiro was overwhelming, but in a different way – this is a crescendo of raw need, and Keith is hyper-aware of how full he feels as Shiro’s fingers twist and thrust inside of him, and how the breath leaves his chest when Shiro finds his prostate and lingers there, rubbing and teasing at it with dangerous precision until Keith grabs Shiro by the shoulders and hauls him up with a frantic whine. He’s  _ not  _ going to come again before the main event. Not this time.

Shiro’s mouth pops off his dick with a wet sound that would normally make Keith laugh, but he’s so beyond laughter, and when they kiss Shiro tastes like salt and skin and Keith laps it up, knowing it is the taste of both of them. _ “God,”  _ he groans when Shiro pulls back.

“No, just Shiro,” Shiro corrects, his tone impish and eyes bright, and Keith loves him for it, loves that though the years have taken some kind of toll – a kind Keith won’t know until it finds him – they haven’t managed to take away Shiro’s humor, his sweetness, his heart. That’s the Shiro Keith knows – and this is still him. 

Keith’s breath hitches. “Inside me,” he says, “please…”

Shiro’s eyes fall half-lidded, his biceps straining as he leans over Keith. “You know you don’t have to ask nicely,” he murmurs. “I’d give you whatever you wanted, baby.”

Keith groans, mutters something against Shiro’s lips like,  _ Then prove it,  _ and then he feels the blunt press of Shiro’s cock at his stretched rim, hands gripping his thighs, spreading him open to the devastating slide of Shiro’s cock. 

Shiro prepared him well, but Keith has a feeling he did it  _ just enough _ for it to _ fit, _ no more, no less – and even then, Keith can’t believe his body is taking it, the heavy drag of Shiro’s cock over his prostate coming so soon, too soon – Keith yelps, hips arching up and cock spurting with unexpected climax, untouched. The sight makes Shiro groan and thrust in, up to the base, and Keith gapes soundlessly, so full he can hardly stand it. His cock is messy and red, leaking now in a sticky puddle as Shiro starts to fuck him.

They have different approaches, Keith thinks as he sprawls out over the pillows and Shiro fucks him into incoherence. It isn’t fast, though – not even hard, exactly. But it’s  _ so much.  _ Keith whimpers into Shiro’s soft, bruised throat and bites, just because he wants to, because Shiro will let him, and Shiro rumbles over him in approval, settling more fully over Keith. 

Keith feels smothered in the best way, and the exhaustion of the past several months – the fear, the uncertainty, the anger, the hurt, the aching awful endless loneliness – all fade into sighing pleasure, engulfing him in a new kind of numbness, the kind that isn’t an absence of someone, but rather all of them at once, too much to feel in its entirety. Keith tries, of course, and towards the end he thinks he succeeds, wrapping his legs around Shiro’s hips and moving with him, both of them panting and letting out broken moans, gasps of each other’s names all frayed at the edges. 

When Keith pushes at Shiro’s chest as his cock swells, Shiro rolls and just like that Keith is riding him, astride scarred hips, Shiro’s hands guiding his bouncing thrusts as he comes down hard and takes his cock in his fist and comes all over Shiro’s belly. His dick finally admits defeat, twitching for many moments after, like it’s forgotten how to soften again. 

Inside him, Shiro’s cock twitches, too, and Keith can feel it and tightens around it, feeling the way he’s speared open, burning and filled to the brim – or, no, not quite, not yet, not until Shiro swears and comes hot inside him, hands clamping down on Keith’s hips. 

Something in Keith sings at that, at the way they claim each other. He wonders about that, why he _ craves _ that mutual claiming, but it’s hard to think of much at all when Shiro is wrapping his arms around Keith and curling around him as he rolls them onto their sides, face to face on the messy bed. He’s still buried inside Keith and Keith likes it that way. Shiro kisses him, and it feels almost too chaste for what they just did, but Keith savors it. He thinks he’s going to need the memories from tonight in the days, weeks, months, hell, years to come. 

Part of him wants to ask Shiro about what happens next. Part of him wants nothing more than to lay here with him forever, wrapped up in the reality of his future, the assurance that he, in fact, has one waiting for him at all. 

But Keith will do neither of those things. He knows he won’t, because he wants to figure out the future himself, and because Shiro won’t be here with him forever. Keith doesn’t know when he will leave – in a moment, in the morning, in a day or two – but he knows he will leave. He doesn’t belong here, not now. This Shiro  _ is  _ his Shiro – but not yet. The thought, bizarrely, makes him smile. 

Shiro strokes his hair, smiling back. “I love you,” he murmurs. “Can’t remember if I said that, yet.”

Keith shakes his head. “You didn’t need to say it,” he whispers, “but I love you too.” His eyes dart up. “You already knew that, though.”

Shiro tilts his head. “He loves you too,” he adds, quiet with uncertainty. “The Shiro from now. Me. He just...he’s going to need some time. To figure things out. To figure himself out.” Shiro’s brow creases. “But it’s never because he doesn’t love you, Keith. We always have. And someday, I  _ will  _ need to say it, and I promise you, even when it seems like the entire Universe is against you – that time _ will  _ come, Keith.”

Keith leans into him, listens to his heartbeat, inhales the scent of him, of them, and seeks to memorize the indescribable. “The Shiro now,” he whispers, “does your Keith – do I go to him, when he needs me?”

Shiro exhales, and there’s a memory in that sound, a memory of pain and relief all wrapped up in one, and he nods, nose tucked into Keith’s hair. “Yes,” he says. “You saved me, Keith. Again and again.”

“You did that first,” Keith retorts, and closes his eyes, throat tight. “Again and again.”  _ You’re doing it right now, _ he thinks.

Shiro hums. “Time is weird,” he admits. “I don’t think there was a first or last time. There’s just us. You and me.”

“You and me,” Keith repeats, wondering. 

Shiro squeezes his waist and leans in to kiss his cheek. Keith blinks at him, surprised that he’s still capable of blushing after their escapades. “You should get some sleep,” Shiro murmurs. Keith tenses, and Shiro’s gaze softens. “I’ll be here when you wake up,” he promises. “We can make breakfast together, whatever you want, and then we have the day.”

“And then?”

Shiro regards him not with sorrow, nor apology, but with a fondness that Keith feels as an answering ache. “And then I go back,” he confirms. “But it’s not really goodbye. Remember that, yeah? We always manage to find each other again, somehow. We’re stubborn like that.”

Keith nods, and tucks his head back against Shiro’s chest. He can do breakfast and a day. “D’you like fry bread?” he asks.

Shiro chuckles. Keith savors the sound; it sinks into his skin, and gives him a strength he thought he might have lost along with the mission failure. 

“It’s my favorite,” Shiro replies, and right then, that’s enough.


End file.
